


No Strings Attached

by Highly_Illogical



Series: The Age That Should Have Been [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Friendship, Gossip, Intrigue, Politics, Post-Magic Reveal, Satire, Some Humor, Suspicions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23910559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highly_Illogical/pseuds/Highly_Illogical
Summary: As Arthur fights to repeal the ban on sorcery, he finds himself facing an unexpected line of opposition that leads to a long overdue discussion of magic, trust, and... freedom of speech? Really?Who knew Merlin had a side hustle as Camelot's leading political columnist?
Relationships: Gwen & Merlin (Merlin), Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: The Age That Should Have Been [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1107354
Comments: 35
Kudos: 260





	No Strings Attached

**Author's Note:**

> Story time: some version or other of this story had been in my plans for the series since... forever and a day, but it was repeatedly scrapped until I could finally make sense of it.  
> I still felt like the problem needed to be addressed, though, and it was the idea I most regretted not writing, so here it is, finally, on my n-th attempt to straighten it out. Enjoy.
> 
> Massive shout-out to FeatherQuilt88 for being my personal cheerleader and sounding board.

“God, Merlin, do you make it a point to do that?”

The door to the royal chambers slams shut with rather more force than necessary and Arthur’s eyes land with unfailing precision on the boots hovering in mid-air, currently in the process of merrily polishing themselves.

“I don’t know, sire. Do you make it a point to _breathe_? And at any rate, it’s not like this is new.”

“I’m in no mood for your philosophy, Merlin,” he snaps, almost as though determined to stay angry. Then, belatedly, his mind seems to catch up with what he’s just heard. “And are you telling me I’ve been wearing magically polished boots _all this time_?”

“Oh, no, sire,” he quips, holding up the other set that had been sitting in his lap, being scrubbed by hand. “Only every other pair, see? Takes me half the time this way.”

“I… you know what? Nevermind. Just see that you don’t give my weapons and armor the same treatment. There’s no telling what it might do to them, and it’ll be a long time before I forget my tutors going on and on about how a sword is an extension of the wielder’s own limbs.”

“Says the one who wields a blatantly magical sword that can slay the dead.”

To his never-ending amusement, Arthur deflates where he stands, his logic mercilessly punctured.

“Oh. That. Then I suppose as long as it gets done, I don’t need to know how.”

“So just business as usual, then.”

Arthur doesn’t dignify that with an answer, and instead drops into his customary seat at his desk, cradling his head in his hands as though it were too heavy for his neck to hold up. With all that’s been going on, Merlin guesses that might be close to the truth.

“Did you mean that?” he asks after an uncomfortably long silence.

“What?”

“That it’s like breathing.”

“It is to me. To be able to do this,” he points in the general direction of the boots, “without worrying that you might barge in any minute… have you ever had your head stuck underwater, only to come up for air and realize it has never tasted as sweet?”

“That’s… an interesting analogy,” he says lamely, with that tone of half incredulity that says he has given up on understanding. Merlin doesn’t mind. There are things about Arthur he’ll never understand either: the thrill of combat as something one might actively seek, not just be thrown into and told to survive; his gleaming crown as an honor and a birthright, and not a burden so heavy that his head bows with it—though he suspects there are days it’s a little of both.

“Still,” the king says pointedly, and his impression is confirmed: he’s determined to stay angry. It must be one of those days his wrath might as well materialize as a stormcloud over his head. “The fact that I know shouldn’t stop you from being careful, Merlin. What if it hadn’t been me coming through that door?”

“The only people coming through that door without knocking are you, Gwen and I. Anyone else not bothering with the pleasantries is probably up to no good, and those would be treated to other magic than a boot polishing.”

Merlin withers under the answering stare, fighting back the urge to clap a hand over his mouth at what it just escaped him. He shouldn’t have said that. He means every word of it, but he most definitely shouldn’t have said it out loud. It’s too much, too soon.

They’re still in a strange, awkward phase of trying to find a new balance, and it’s casual remarks like this that threaten to upset it at the most unexpected times. It’s all coming back, ever so slowly—the playful insults bouncing back and forth, the looks exchanged across the room that carry as much meaning as a conversation of its own. And yet, Merlin hesitates to call it ‘going back to normal’. This is not going back: this is going forward. The destination, however, is unknown.

He never thought he’d see the day he would feel _relief_ , of all things, at being called an idiot, but the first time the word had made it past the king’s lips afterwards, it had felt like a missing piece slotting into place. Too many times Arthur had swallowed whatever remark he had in mind, fearful, despite himself, that one day he might go too far and find himself the object of some unnamed vengeance like those that had populated his childhood nightmares.

Speaking of his magic as a threat, even one not directed at him, is treading into dangerous territory. Merlin can see his valiant efforts to get used to it, and it’s precisely because he’s watching said efforts closely that he knows how Arthur’s heart must still skip a beat when he sees it, how tempting it is to let his hand go to the pommel of his sword. How he’s still watching those damned boots from time to time like they’re going to spontaneously acquire a rebellious streak and start kicking him.

He doesn’t blame him. For all that he’s been surreptitiously making it a point – because yes, he _does_ make a point of it, thank you very much – to show him all manner of harmless tricks, it isn’t nearly enough to undo a lifetime of not seeing magic used for anything other than harm.

“And just how often has that happened?” Arthur asks in a surprisingly passable imitation of polite curiosity.

“That depends. How mad will you be if I tell you I’ve lost count?”

There’s enough to read in that look that it wouldn’t fit in all of Geoffrey’s library.

“What about—?” He stops abruptly, as if choking on the rest of the sentence.

“What?” Contrary to popular belief, he cannot read every stray thought that strolls through his king’s obviously troubled mind; what more can he possibly want to know, after he has bared his soul so utterly, after he has let himself believe there were no more secrets between them?

“Nevermind. Just… just forget I said anything.”

“Arthur.” It comes out rather more sternly than he'd planned, but he will stand his ground. “Something’s bothering you.” It’s not a question: it can’t be, because Arthur is the sort of man who doesn’t take well to being asked if something is bothering him. If you phrase it like a question, he will deny it until his dying day; a fact is much harder to avoid.

He knows the script just as well as a practiced actor who has rehearsed the same lines over and over until they were burned on the inside of his eyelids: this is where Arthur should let a few seconds pass, just to keep up the pretense that he doesn't want to talk about it, and then cave, take a deep breath, and let it all out in a single rambling stream.

He doesn’t. Instead, he digs deep into his pocket, fumbles for a moment, and finally pulls something out, tossing it onto the desk so forcefully that he very nearly overshoots and sends it skidding off the other side. Merlin stops it with one hand and is almost surprised to find it is not, in fact, covered in filth. Going by the way Arthur has been handling it, this may well be something found in the dirtiest corner of the nearest pigsty.

“Leon found it.”

Merlin holds it up for inspection. It’s an innocent enough piece of parchment, folded many times over and a little worse for wear for having travelled from pocket to pocket for goodness knows how long, and on the outside—better go ask Gaius for his magnifying glass, because he has to squint before he’s sure of what exactly he's seeing.

It’s a very crude drawing that is obviously meant to represent Arthur: whoever made it is clearly no artist, but the crown atop the small figure’s head is eloquent enough. But it’s the rest of the picture that makes a cold weight settle in the region of his stomach as he realizes what the clumsy painter intended: the little king’s arms, uneven and awkwardly formed, are held aloft as if in an unnatural dance, and he hangs from strings like a puppet, being directed this way and that by a pair of sticks crossed above his head.

Merlin drops it as if burned. For a moment, he thinks he just might vomit, but a couple of deep, steadying breaths stave off the worst of it. That doesn’t stop the boots from falling out of the air with a soft _thump_.

“Read it,” the king commands. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Please,” and in that _please_ , Merlin hears what he isn't saying: _read it, please, and tell me there isn’t any truth to it_.

With hesitant hands, Merlin unfolds it to see the writing hidden inside.

“ _‘If, after thorough examination, the Accused should be found to have committed the Crime not of their own volition, but under the influence of Enchantment’_ —Arthur, that’s part of the new law.” Gods know he’s read every word until he could recite them in his sleep.

“Exactly,” he says, cold and clipped. “They mean to trap me with my own words. If a man is not to be held responsible for a crime committed under the influence of magic,” he summarizes, now dripping contempt, “why should we obey the laws of a king who is clearly not in his right mind?”

“They think you’re enchanted?”

“And the worst part is,” says Arthur, and something new is creeping into his voice now, something that he'll never call by its name out loud, because its name is fear, “it’s a legitimate concern.”

Merlin feels as though the floor has dropped out from under him.

“Arthur, you can’t think—I wouldn’t— _please_.” He swallows and forces himself to string together a complete sentence, word by laborious word. “If you need me to swear it on my mother’s life, I’ll go down on one knee and take an oath right here and now. I wouldn’t. If nothing else, please believe this.”

“No, it’s not… it’s not that.” He’s been making astonishing progress, but discussing such things openly is the one topic that still makes him stumble over his words. “I’m not concerned about you specifically, just in general. I trust you.”

Something flares in his chest as hot and bright as the sun itself. This, right here—this is the first time he’s said those exact words since that fateful day, and Merlin feels distinctly like he’s pulling the pieces of himself together to keep them from falling apart in overwhelming joy. _I trust you_. He doesn’t care to admit how much he had longed to hear it.

“But you have to understand, Merlin, this is the refrain I heard the most, right behind Father’s old adage that magic corrupts the soul. You can’t trust sorcerers,” and truly, it’s a wonder Merlin never heard the difference before, because now it’s blindingly obvious that the words don’t belong to him, like the litany of a child reciting his multiplication tables in fear of the schoolmaster’s cane, “because when dealing with them, you never know for certain that your mind is your own.”

“Arthur, I—” But he isn’t listening; he has begun and he intends to see it through without interruption.

“Think about it. The one group of people that has a vested interest in seeing that this law is passed just so happens to be the group of people that could _make_ me pass it. You have to admit it makes a frightening amount of sense to the opposition. And what’s worse, nobody can tell where it ends. It isn’t just the new laws on magic that are being threatened: I realize now that this… this… _theory_ has been undermining me in a thousand other ways. I believed it was just because I’m young, relatively untested, but this explains so much about why I’ve been dreading council meetings more and more with each passing day. What if my thoughts aren’t my own even on such mundane things as taxes, or patrol routes, or—?” The enumeration peters out and dies, and the conclusion is grim: “If this goes on much longer, they might think me unfit to rule.”

“They’re grasping at straws, Arthur, and you know it.”

“But that’s just the thing. _I don’t_. That’s the entire point, isn’t it? A man who is enchanted will swear up and down that he is not.” He wishes so dearly he could cut in and say that the fact that he’s worrying about it is a good sign already, but Arthur clearly needs to talk about it on his own terms or none at all. He looks around as though expecting eavesdroppers to jump out and catch him in the act, leans closer, and says, like a young lad savoring the sound of a particularly shocking swear word he's been often admonished not to repeat: “I wish there were some sort of test.”

Merlin can’t help it: his body may be here in Arthur’s chambers, but a part of his mind is already up in the tower with his book, going over the options, because this, too, is a milestone he’d never hoped to see. He’s as good as asking for it, even if not in so many words, and his magic is standing at attention, coiled tight beneath his ribcage and ready at his king's command.

He must have been more obvious about it than he thought, because Arthur’s face morphs into something like disbelief and hope waging open war on the field of his brow. “Is there?”

“None that the council will readily accept as proof,” he answers, hating that the truth can’t be a better one, “because shockingly enough, there is no _real_ way to test for magic without more magic. But…”

“Good luck making them swallow the idea of allying with a sorcerer long enough to perform such a test in public,” Arthur cuts him off. “Even if you were to use some sort of disguise to avoid exposing yourself too soon, it would never work. But do go on; I like that there's a _but_ in that sentence.”

“Well,” he hedges, “it’s not foolproof. Whether you like it or not, magic is the only way you can be certain. But…” Merlin falters. This will look like utter madness, no doubt: he can hear the king’s objections already. There’s no way it’s so simple. And yet, sometimes, the simplest answer is also the best.

“Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“This will sound like a strange question, but why did you marry Gwen?”

Arthur looks at him rather like he's suddenly sprouted horns. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Humor me, all right? Pretend I don’t know her. If you had to explain to someone who hasn’t met her why you married her, of all people, what would you say?”

“Because she may not have a queen’s breeding, but she has the heart of one. Because what she lacks in nobility of blood, she makes up in compassion. Because she’s not afraid to tell me what I need to hear. She’s not some… some simpering courtier who will hang on your every word and then stab you in the back at her earliest convenience. She speaks her mind, sometimes more plainly than is good for her, with no frills or hidden agendas, and God knows I need the simplicity.” Despite himself, the king's lips curl into a smile, and call him a sentimental idiot, but Merlin is convinced that love has a peculiar sort of magic of its own, because he has seen Arthur smile on plenty of occasions, but never quite like this. “And did I mention she’s beautiful? It isn’t every day you find a woman who is as beautiful with a crown as she was on her hands and knees scrubbing floors.”

Merlin smirks and moves in for the kill. He idly wishes Gwen were here to listen to this, but she’s in the library, _again_ , playing her frantic game of catch-up on which of the courtiers is whose second cousin once removed. “Right. And I suppose Your Majesty will be just as eloquent in explaining, say, why you were once so in love with Lady Vivian. Or Sophia.”

“I—” His mouth works soundlessly, once, twice, and then shuts in defeat. “I don’t know. I won’t lie and say they weren’t pretty, but you don’t see me acting like a lovesick fool for every pretty woman in court. I can’t explain it, it… it just was.”

“And there’s your test, passed with flying colors.”

“Pardon me?”

“Generally speaking, if you can articulate _why_ you want to do something, it’s likely all you; if it _just is_ , that’s your cue to start worrying. Or, more accurately, everyone else’s cue; you’d feel just fine about it and never notice anything off until someone drags your royal arse back out of it.”

“And generally speaking,” he says, mirroring him, “I have a hunch that that someone would be you.”

“Well, no. Let’s give credit where credit is due: I don’t know where you’d be without Gwen. Probably still pining after the blond terror.”

“It can’t be that easy.” And here it comes: the seasoned warrior who is trained by bitter experience to always expect a catch.

“It isn't. There are some who might weave a spell so subtle that even asking why might produce an answer that only your nearest and dearest could recognize as planted, and that’s if you’re lucky. But it’s like… like snooping through someone else’s letters: anyone can rip them open and not care if you notice, very few have the know-how to make the seal look unbroken.”

The question remains unasked and Merlin is grateful not to have to answer it, but it’s as if he had, and he can only hope the king doesn’t lose sleep over it. The circles under his eyes are dark enough as it is.

“So where does that leave us?”

“Well, _has_ anyone in council asked you why you’ve had a change of heart?”

Arthur lets out a humorless snort. “You’re there nearly as often as I am, Merlin. You know perfectly well that they haven’t.”

He’s not altogether wrong: it was never uncommon for Merlin to be standing in the council chambers, pitcher in hand and eyes trained on Arthur’s goblet, made all but invisible by an air of meek unimportance more powerful than any spell, but lately, he’s been more and more unable to get out of it with vague explanations about having other work to prioritize.

It’s all a string of excuses, some more far-fetched – _I still do need drinks, Merlin, don’t go getting ideas above your station yet_ , or _God knows I need a fool to keep me entertained while the old codgers bore me out of my skull_ –, some frightfully realistic – _I expect you to know who’s who by the time this is over, it’s not acceptable to address a councilman as Lord Whatshisface_ , or _You’ll be sitting there sooner rather than later and you must learn to act accordingly_ –, but they both know the real reason: the king wants him to be there when it happens, when the papers are signed and the soft _squelch_ of the royal seal on freshly molten wax makes them into law.

In all honesty, Merlin is not sure it’s advisable: he still feels his legs turning to jelly just to hear him talk in terms of _when_ rather than _if_ , and doesn’t trust himself to keep his composure if he is made to witness it. But he would be lying if he said that wasn’t the single bit of history he most wants to be a part of, and so they wait, biding their time until the old guard can be made to see reason.

“And to be frank, why would they?” the king continues. “I can’t name a single one of them who knows it’s even a question that should be asked.”

“Gaius does,” he corrects him, irrationally piqued on behalf of his father in all but blood. “He may not be the same as a lord, but people listen to him.”

Arthur stares. “So if we were to, say, _arrange_ that line of questioning…”

“They may not understand its significance,” says Merlin. “But with luck, it might be progress. They’ve seen what a man under a spell acts like; all we can do is pray they see the difference.”

“Talk to him before the next meeting.”

“Yes, sire.” He has been teased without mercy about sounding insulting even when he says that, but what more is there to say?

Arthur, however, does have more to say: he sighs, staring at the pamphlet as though it might bite him.

“I wish I knew who started it, but the cowards didn’t even sign it. You’d think those supposed paragons of nobility would at least own up to their own slander. Leon even volunteered to round up all the copies and… and rather pointedly suggested that the knights could use a bonfire to keep warm while doing drills early in the morning, but to tell you the truth, the thought alone put me off my lunch.”

“Why?” He knows the answer, he knows it in his bones, but he knows just as surely that the king won’t deny him the satisfaction of hearing it.

“Because as much as I don’t like it, Merlin, it’s an opinion, and there’s a small leap from burning opinions to burning people.”

“Ah, Merlin, what news?”

It’s becoming a routine question between him and the old physician: it feels for all the world like Gaius is checking every day that the new arrangement, the apparent impossibility of people knowing and heads remaining attached to their respective necks, is not some kind of illusion that will dissipate like smoke on closer inspection. Merlin can’t find it in his heart to blame him: it wasn’t too long ago that the two were mutually exclusive.

“You know, the usual. Polishing boots, having a pleasant chat, uncovering seditious libel. All in a day’s work.”

Gaius’s careful hand slips over his latest potion in surprise and Merlin feels a small stab of guilt as he inspects it, gives it up as a bad job with a shake of his head, and takes it off the fire. That’s one way to get his undivided attention, he supposes.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

Merlin brings him up to speed on the disturbing discovery, watching the old man’s frown lines grow deeper as he goes.

“So if you can make sure to be at the next meeting and ask him, we hope _some_ of them realize he’s actually thinking for himself,” he concludes.

“That might be a step forward, but you can’t expect miracles. Claiming that a man is enchanted is the quickest way to destroy his credibility: once the seed of suspicion is planted, anything he says might be seen as a result of it. I’m happy to help, but I fear Arthur will only dig himself a deeper grave.”

“So if they _want_ to believe he’s enchanted, there’s no talking them out of it?”

“There would be if they were being reasonable, but of all the people I can think of who might have started it, there isn’t one I would describe as reasonable.”

“Wait, so you have some idea who wrote it?”

“No, but it sounds like someone who will cry sorcery at the slightest provocation, and you can’t expect such a person to be reasonable.”

“And it’s someone who actually bothered to read Arthur’s draft far enough to quote it. You’d think they’d just see the word ‘magic’ and reject it without so much as looking at it.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down much, does it?”

“I just wish we could come up with some solid evidence. Then it wouldn’t even matter who wrote it, everyone would see that it’s all a load of nonsense.”

“Merlin, you know as well as I do that magic is the one thing in this world for which it’s hardest to find solid evidence one way or the other. I’m sure Arthur would be willing to surrender to inspection if it came to that, and perhaps some might be comforted when the guards fail to find anything suspicious—charms, poultices, that sort of thing. But all it takes is one person who knows it can be done without leaving a physical trace, and it’s all for naught.”

“If only it were that easy to destroy _their_ credibility.”

It hits him like a bolt of lightning: if their chosen strategy is to whisper ideas into people’s ears, well, two can play at that game. He plucks quill, ink and parchment out of the perpetual clutter just as surely as if he were following a map to navigate Gaius’s peculiar form of organized chaos.

“Sorry about the potion, I’ll make it up to you!”

And he scampers down the stairs, his resolve renewed. He isn’t the unseen hand behind half the king’s speeches for nothing.

When he finds the top of Gwen’s curly head emerging from behind a barricade of books of genealogy and etiquette, he only reminds himself to bow because Geoffrey is watching.

“Mind if I join you, _Your Majesty_?”

“Hmm?” She smiles, pats an open seat distractedly in unspoken invitation, and goes right back to frowning at someone’s lavishly illustrated family tree. If the size of the tome is any indication, she has about a hundred more to go. He doesn’t envy her one bit.

Merlin, meanwhile, goes about setting up his own personal battlefield: writing implements, fresh parchment, and of course, the blasted pamphlet he’s nicked from the king’s chambers before coming here for some much-needed peace and quiet. As much as the thought turns his stomach, he’s going to have to make himself read the whole thing if he wants to stand a chance at tearing it to shreds with its own weapons. Arthur certainly won’t complain about its mysterious disappearance.

Gwen catches him staring down his silent enemy, and it’s apparently a curious enough spectacle to tear her eyes away from her self-imposed lessons in queenliness.

“What’s that all about?” she whispers at a Geoffrey-approved volume.

“Long story, but I could use your help.”

He slides the pamphlet across the table and watches her go first puzzled, then ashen as the figure of the puppet king begins to make sense.

“The stupid, noble—” she bites back the worst of it, perhaps because being heard insulting the king while holding a piece of slanderous writing that questions his fitness to rule isn’t the brightest idea. “And he wouldn’t tell me anything! I’m his wife! Why am I the last to know?”

“I’m sure he meant to. He only found out today, and he came to me first because… you know…” he wiggles his fingers suggestively. “No hard feelings. It’s just my area of expertise.”

“Right, I forgot. I mean, not that you can _really_ forget about a thing like that, but—” She makes a noise of frustration. “I’ve got to stop doing that. I’ll start a war with my big mouth one of these days.”

Merlin’s face splits into a grin. Sure, it warms his heart to see Arthur coming around step by arduous step, but this… this is different. That she could _forget_ , fall back on treating him the same as always and then catch herself and remember that oh, right, he has magic, is more than he had ever hoped for.

“Gwen, it’s all right. Between forgetting and running for your life, I’ll take forgetting any day of the week.”

She shoots him a sympathetic smile. “So what do we do?”

Merlin takes that ‘we’ that fell from her lips so naturally and squirrels it away like a precious thing, because it means they’re still a team.

“We come up with an answer, of course.”

“What do I know of how to prove he’s not enchanted? You just said it’s your area of expertise.”

“That may be, but it’s not the only thing we need. For starters, the queen just might have a better chance than a servant at getting the copies where they need to go, and believe me, I can make a lot of copies. And second, what’s the one thing you said the court and the servants’ corridors have in common?”

“Gossip.”

“Exactly. I need an insider.”

Family trees forgotten, they share a grimace and start studying the pamphlet instead. The prose is flowery, the sort of writing that can only have come out of a noble’s hand, and Merlin’s insides fill with dread. He has never bothered to match it: the strong point of his speeches, to hear Arthur tell it, was always that the common people could understand them.

Other than ‘this would be good for sorcerers, so it must be a sorcerer’s work’ and ‘the king would never do this, therefore he must be under a spell’, however, the mysterious writer doesn’t have much in the way of sensible arguments: after making its point – based on what? The vague notion that Arthur can’t possibly be anything other than a copy of his father? –, the pamphlet devolves into a list of increasingly dire imagined consequences that will come to pass if the ban on magic is repealed.

 _Our skillful Artisans and hardy Farmers, powerless before a competitor they can never hope to match, shall be faced with an unspeakable Choice: take up the foul Practice or starve by the thousands…_ so what? Is it so unthinkable to imagine a world where a cobbler’s shoes are made a little sturdier by a whisper of magic worked into the leather and the steady rhythm of the farmhands’ working songs is punctuated by chants of growth and hope to help the harvest come in ripe and plentiful? If magic were restricted to only a few, it would indeed be a disservice to the multitude left to keep up with their hands alone, but nowhere in Arthur’s proposed regulations does it say that there can only be so many sorcerers in Camelot. If you give everyone the same starting point, the race is fair. And the bitter irony of it all, Merlin notes, is that to make such an argument, you must first acknowledge that there is such a thing as magic that won’t destroy anything it touches, but even that can be twisted to look like something foul, if you’re good enough with a quill.

 _The very notion of Chivalry shall be reduced to an empty husk in the face of an unnatural Force against which steel and sinew fade to nothing…_ well, at least this one must have heard ‘you can’t fight magic without magic’ enough times for it to be beaten into their skull, which is something, he supposes, but he seems to have forgotten that chivalry is about more than whacking anything that moves with a sword. What happened to acting with nobility, honor, and respect? Spreading anonymous pamphlets is none of those things, and there isn’t a lick of magic in them. Whoever wrote this has reduced chivalry to an empty husk without it already, thank you very much, and while Merlin is undoubtedly sinking to their level by writing back, well… just this once, he feels entitled to sticking his tongue out and saying they started it, like children do.

_And finally, as long as the Puppet King sits on the revered Throne and allows all manner of Sorcerers to run roughshod over the once mighty Land of Camelot, an Affliction much deadlier than any Disease which Natural Science can cure shall poison our very Hearts: the inevitable Corruption of the Soul._

At that, Merlin has to put down the parchment and screw his eyes shut, hating the sight of it. Of course it all comes back to that, doesn’t it? If he weren’t dead and buried, he might think Uther himself wrote it.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I just… heard that refrain one too many times, is all. How can you even tell if a person’s soul is supposedly corrupted? Because they’ve committed evil acts? Don’t even get me started on the list of people I could name who were evil without having a magical bone in their body, because we both know who would be at the top.”

“Shhh!”

Oops. He’d completely forgotten about Geoffrey. But then again, if the only consequence he gets is to be shushed, that’s all the proof he needs to know that the papers attesting to his pardon must be drawn up, signed, sealed and secreted away until they can be made public. He likes to think they’re sitting behind the trick bookcase, right next to the rest of the things that ought to have been burned, but weren’t, because the old librarian’s heart bleeds to think of any loss of knowledge.

“So where do we go from here?”

_‘If, after thorough examination, the Accused should be found to have committed the Crime not of their own volition, but under the influence of Enchantment, they shall be blameless in the eyes of Justice.’_

_Ladies and Gentlemen of our esteemed Court, His Majesty King Arthur Pendragon—_

“Is that enough capital letters? They seemed to enjoy sprinkling them everywhere.”

“Should be about right. Reminds me of my correspondence, actually.”

Hard to believe that a former maidservant is now exchanging letters with the kings and queens of neighboring kingdoms, but that’s life for you.

_—stands accused of a most heinous Crime: to have acted, as is the wont of His youthful blood, contrary to the expectations of certain Lords and Ladies who shall remain unnamed in deference to their Privacy, and whose advancing Age, along with certain shameful Afflictions concerning a frequent use of their Chamberpots,—_

“Merlin!”

“I know, I know, Gaius is going to kill me, but at least I didn’t break confidentiality!”

“Now everyone’s going to try and guess who it is who can’t—was that necessary?”

“Trust me, it was _completely_ necessary.”

_—may certainly cause disagreement on a number of pressing Matters._

_To have one’s own Opinion, particularly when said Opinion happens to be unpopular, is indeed a Sin so foul that one has to wonder, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Court, whether our King deserves to be blameless in the eyes of Justice, as a certain anonymous Author seems to suggest, and the blame shifted to an equally anonymous Sorcerer plotting in the shadows to make our beloved Sovereign dance to his whim as a Puppet upon a Stage._

_But the examination, no doubt, must have been as thorough as the new proposed Law commands: what irrefutable Signs, then, has the anonymous Author found to support the disturbing Claim that His Majesty must be acting under the influence of Enchantment?_

_The new Law, as it is written, would benefit those Sorcerers left alive in spite of the late King Uther Pendragon’s efforts to eradicate them from the Land, and therefore, the anonymous Author infers, the proposal must be their doing,—_

“Drat, there’s a Latin phrase about this, I know there is.”

“Gaius has been teaching you Latin?”

“You try getting through his books without it. I’ll have to make him dinner for this, it’s the least I can do.”

_—for as the Romans have taught us, ‘cui prodest scelus is fecit’: whom the Crime advances, he has done it._

_It is possible, according to this fine piece of Reasoning, that our King has been indeed placed under some unnatural influence which impairs the higher Faculties of His mind; but the anonymous Author should know all too well that if their childhood Tutor in the noble Art of Logic had heard them make such a bold statement as ‘it is possible, therefore it must be true’, no doubt he would have rapped their knuckles._

“Help me out, I need something juicy. What’s the latest dirt that nobody in court will confirm or deny?”

“Hmm, let’s see. You know Lady Lynette?”

“Tall, blonde, rude, made Cathryn cry at the last feast?”

“Right in one, except I wouldn’t be so sure about the ‘blonde’ part. Word on the street is she absolutely destroyed her hair to keep it that way, and that’s a wig.”

“Excellent. She’ll throw a right fit.”

_It is possible, for instance, that our most esteemed Lady Lynette’s flaxen hair is not entirely natural, and therefore, following our anonymous Author’s ironclad Logic, it must not be; but we would not dare commit such Slander against her flawless Beauty. After all, the fact that there exist in Camelot skilled Artisans who can produce wigs so artfully as to make them indistinguishable from the hair that no doubt grows spontaneously upon her fair head, and who would benefit from such noble Patronage, does not necessarily mean that Lady Lynette has taken advantage of their services._

_Why, then, one wonders, should the fact that there exist in Camelot, despite the late King’s relentless efforts, a number of Sorcerers who would benefit from the inclusion of such a Law in our sacred Code necessarily mean that His Majesty the King is currently under such influence?_

_It is out of His Majesty the King’s Character, the anonymous Author adds, to desire the implementation of such a Law, and He must therefore have been placed under a most devious Enchantment; we should assume, then, that said Author enjoys the privilege of being in His Majesty’s utmost Confidence, to presume to be an accurate Judge of His magnanimous Character._

_Ladies and Gentlemen of the Court, did such Writings circulate when His Majesty the King struck the First Rule from the Knights’ Code, allowing our valiant Knights to be judged and admitted to the most venerable of Brotherhoods solely on the basis of their Prowess in Battle and Nobility of Character, rather than a Nobility of Blood which is guarantee of neither?_

_Did such Writings circulate when His Majesty the King took our Most Gracious Queen to be his Wife, by which act, even as the People rejoiced, he may have dashed the lofty expectations of a number of Lords in possession of fair Daughters of appropriate Age?_

“Sorry, I had to.”

Gwen clutches her chest in mock pain. “The truth hurts.”

_Were these acts not out of the Character our King was once thought to possess? Why, then, when His Majesty once again does the unexpected, is our first thought that he must be acting out of Character, and not that we were the ones to misjudge it?_

_It is prudent to suspect Enchantment, the anonymous Author claims, when the action which is under Scrutiny appears to be unmotivated and sudden, but we dare to ask, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Court: are our King’s motivations unknown because he has none but the machinations of a Sorcerer, or because none of our venerable Council, in their profound Wisdom, have thought to inquire?_

“Came up this morning, actually. Be sure to ask him about it, it’s no fun if I tell it.”

“Er, sure, if you say so.”

_We dare to ask: when, since the Royal Crown was placed upon our King’s head, was a Citizen of our fair Kingdom last charged and executed for the Crime of Sorcery?_

Merlin puts down his quill, willing his hand not to shake. This requires decent handwriting, not unreadable chicken scratch.

“You all right?”

“Yeah, just… just a bit of a cramp,” he lies badly. She sees right through him, and for once in his life, he’s happy that his falsehoods didn’t stand up to scrutiny.

_When did the Headman’s axe last swing? When was the Gallows last erected in the Courtyard of our mighty Castle? When was a convicted Citizen last consumed by the flames of a Pyre?_

The color has drained from Gwen’s cheeks.

“God, I never thought of what it must be like for you to see it.”

“Guess the first thing I saw when I came here,” he says bitterly. “You’d think I was used to it, but every time was like the first.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

He smiles a dangerously wet smile, but now is not the time for tears. Not over the parchment.

_Has our King not shown Caution and Mercy beyond his youthful years in doling out the ultimate Sentence for said Crime? Have His methods, long before His actions were suspected to be the product of Enchantment, not differed from His recent Predecessor’s? We must then come to one of these two most startling Conclusions:_

  * _I. That the Father’s relentless Battle against the Evils of Witchcraft was so successful that there are no Sorcerers left in our fair Kingdom for the Son to condemn, from which it would naturally follow that there are none left to place the suspected Enchantment; or_
  * _II. That the action which has engendered said Suspicion, i.e. to have committed the irredeemable Sin of having a differing Opinion on the very Nature of Sorcery and proposing to change our sacred Code of Law accordingly, is not as unmotivated and sudden as the anonymous Author would have us believe, but rather the result of long Premeditation, from which it would also follow that the King must be acting in accordance with His own natural Desires._



“You know, when you put it like that, I don’t know how anyone with half a brain can believe it.”

“Maybe because they don’t _have_ half a brain between them.”

_Should any of our esteemed Readers still be of the Opinion that the King’s actions are dictated by Enchantment, the anonymous Author then poses a most disturbing Question: where does it end? If His Royal Decrees on this particular Subject are being written by a foreign hand, how are we to know that His hand is writing those concerning all other Matters vital to the Prosperity and Integrity of our Kingdom?_

_But having concluded our principal Arguments, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Court, allow us to ask the anonymous Author the same Question: where does it end?_

“Spill the beans, oh queen of the scandals. I need some quirks, habits, even favorite foods, anything that a well-known courtier is famous for doing all the time.”

“Sir Brennis will go for a walk at the same time every evening rain or shine, but half the ladies swear it’s just because he’s seeing someone and they’re dying to figure out who it is.”

“Why only half?” he asks, amused.

“He didn’t wear a favor at the last tournament, and that must mean he’s single and ready to mingle.” Gwen rolls her eyes. “Things like this make me glad I’m already married.”

“Anything else?”

“Lord Howden probably has an unhealthy obsession with styling his beard. Oh, and Lady Enid? That tiny slip of a thing? She’ll gobble up ungodly amounts of custard tarts if she has the chance, her stomach is a bottomless pit. That good enough?”

“I’m impressed.” Even when she was a humble serving girl with little more than kitchen gossip to entertain herself, he’d never known her to be such an endless reservoir of petty hearsay, but she’s a prominent member of the court now: when in Rome, do as the Romans do.

_If Lady Enid, having already eaten her fill, astounds her noble Peers by refusing the gracious offer of one last custard tart, must we assume that a most vicious Curse is robbing her of her healthy Appetite?_

_If Lord Howden graces us with his noble presence at a Royal Banquet with his impressive growth of facial hair in less than perfect order, must we attribute his uncouth appearance to a foul Enchantment?_

_If Sir Brennis misses his customary evening promenade, must we deduce that he is bound to his rooms by means of Sorcery? The fortunate Lady who may or may not be the true destination of his daily strolls might certainly believe so, but we advise verifying that he has not simply been prescribed rest by our revered Court Physician before leaping to such a daring Conclusion._

_The Practice of Magic can indeed be the cause of a great many things; but if we assume it to be the root of any event which breaks the familiar mold of Habit and Assumption and fail to seek a more mundane cause, we ask again, where does it end?_

_Allow us to remind the Ladies and Gentlemen of the Court, as our final parting Remark, that according to the common People, assuming makes one no better than the lowly Beast whose name is hidden within the word itself—but we do not presume to be such fine Judges of Character as our anonymous Author, and as such, we would never be so bold as to liken them to such a Beast._

Merlin wipes the metaphorical sweat from his brow.

“Gods, I hope that was worth the headache.”

“They’ll never know what hit them.”

“I take it Her Majesty approves?”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Then if you’ll excuse me, I need to borrow some of those.”

It’s Merlin’s turn, now, to be barricaded behind a convenient wall of books: gods forbid anyone who isn’t in on the dirty little secret stroll into the library to see his eyes flashing gold.

“You all but _flooded_ the armory with them, Merlin!”

“Er… better safe than sorry?”

“And at any rate, yours were anonymous too, and that makes you no better than them.”

“Then how do you know it was me?” he says cheekily. “And besides, I did sign them.”

“Where?”

“On the outside.”

The king takes one look at the outermost side of the sheet and splutters in a most unkingly manner.

Good thing his mind’s eye is a sight better at drawing than his hand, because if he had been reduced to quill and ink, he really doesn’t believe _that_ merlin would have been capable of flight.

“What makes you so certain it won’t cause you any trouble?”

“You’re forgetting something.”

“Am I?”

“To make the connection, they’d have to know my name in the first place, and with those people, I wouldn’t bet on it. Last time I was assigned to a visiting noble, he called me Martin once, Marvin twice, and ‘boy’ or ‘hey, you’ the rest of the time.”

“Oh. Then… I suppose it was a bit unorthodox, but thanks.”

“You’re welcome, sire.”

“Will you stop fussing?”

“Fussing? Who’s fussing? I’m not fussing.”

“Yes, you are. Now quit fiddling with my collar and let’s go.”

“Remember what we said?”

“That I must be seen to be thinking with my head, not with my gut. And my gut says that if you ask me one more time, I still do have the power to put you in the stocks.”

Merlin mimes sealing his lips and throwing away the key, but then he speaks anyway: “Oh, and… good luck, sire.”

“God knows I need all the luck I can get.”

Council meetings, as a general rule, are a somber, nervous affair that puts Merlin in mind of a complicated game of strategy where the placement of the tokens on the board determines the workings of the kingdom. He may not be the best player just yet, but at least he can recognize the two opposing teams: those who didn’t bat an eye when the table became round, and those who, after all this time, are still uncomfortable with the seating arrangement and seem to miss the simplicity of half-shouting at Uther from the other end of the rectangle. If nothing else, he knows which ones will be making trouble today.

The talks seem to drag on forever: perhaps his impatience is playing tricks on him, but it has never been such a chore for Merlin to stand behind the king throughout the proceedings, his feet pleading for mercy. Each and every time Arthur seeks out Gaius and silently communicates _showtime_ , some other trivial matter comes up to push the question of the new law further and further down the list of things to be discussed. It reminds him, he notes in a moment of realization, of how Arthur used to be: the more excuses he could find to avoid thinking about magic at all, the better. For a time, that stubborn avoidance had been Merlin’s salvation; to see it now in the councilmen’s desperate scrambling to ignore the elephant in the room is wearing away at his sanity.

It is only when even the topic of how much luxury the court should or should not be permitted is thoroughly exhausted (Lord Howden, Merlin notes, strokes his beard defensively as he stresses the necessity of his usual allotment of beeswax) that they surrender to the inevitability of broaching the subject.

“Regarding the proposal of a new set of laws for the regulation of—”

They won’t even let him say the word.

“Preposterous! Your father would never have permitted this.”

“If I may be so bold as to remind you, Lord Howden, I have been old enough to have no need for a living regent for some time now, and I have even less use for a deceased one.”

The ensuing wave of stunned silence that makes its way around the table is as beautiful to Merlin as any work of art. He can almost fancy he can see the man’s precious beard curl in shock. He stutters something about young men and disrespect and then withers under the sheer force of Arthur’s glare.

“As I was saying before the interruption, regarding the proposal of a new set of laws for the regulation of magic—”

Gaius, at least, has the good grace to let him say it before clearing his throat very pointedly.

“Yes?” Arthur gestures with his empty goblet to signal for a refill, and Merlin is fairly sure he let it go dry on purpose, to have him close when the question is asked. “If you have something to say on the matter, Gaius, I’m sure we could all stand to learn from your input.”

Lord Howden is mightily displeased by the stark difference in treatment, but if the lesson Merlin has to learn before he is fit for court is to be petty, then he asked for it.

“I believe, sire, that there is a point our previous discussions of the proposal have not yet addressed.”

“Please,” he says with his most practiced regal nod. “If nothing else, I pride myself on being thorough.”

“At the risk of asking too simple a question, Your Majesty, what brought this on? Before the council can truly discuss it in a rational manner, does this most venerable company not deserve to know _why_?”

Merlin can see the king’s knuckles going white around the stem of his goblet. _Come on now, Arthur._

“Because—” he falters, and for a heart-stopping moment, it really, truly sounds like there is nothing after that, but then Arthur throws him a sidelong glance, and he gets it. _Because of you, but it’s too soon to say so._

“Because it’s easy to be fooled into thinking that only sorcerers could possibly have anything to gain from such a law, but in truth, it stands to benefit the kingdom as a whole. For too long, false allegations of sorcery have been used by unscrupulous men as a tool to bring their personal enemies to their knees the moment they grew too prosperous for their liking. Take away the tool, and nobody will have to live in fear of their own success, waiting for someone’s envy to strike them down. Has nobody in this room known someone who was charged with witchcraft and acquitted, but could never rise from it again, because the word ‘sorcerer’ remained as a permanent stain on their character?”

And they have; not all of them, perhaps, but Merlin sees the telltale flicker of recognition on some faces, and that’s more than enough.

“Because I’ve recently had the chance to have an in-depth look at previous records of trials, and I found, to my surprise, that the supposed plague of sorcery disproportionately affects the poor and the outcast: widows who never remarried and have to support themselves offering allegedly magical services to those who can’t afford a proper physician, beggars who offend the sensibilities of polite society, even children who are not accepted by their peer groups. Strangely enough, if the accused was in possession of a sizeable fortune, evidence for acquittal seemed to turn up rather more often. But how can this be, when my father’s doctrine so often stressed that sorcery is the product of willing and careful study, and most of these people are hardly literate enough to sign their names? By all rights, a crime that requires study should be far more widespread among men of culture. The discrepancy made me suspect injustice, and I’ve been sworn as a knight, since long before I was sworn as king, to combat such injustice.”

Merlin doesn’t stick his tongue out at their frowns, but it’s a near thing. He can only hope those frowns mean they’re actually thinking about it rather than repeating Uther’s words like trained parrots.

“Because I believed – we all believed – that the choice was between banning magic or facing utter chaos, but all this time, the evidence to the contrary has been sitting just beyond our borders. Have all the kingdoms on the map banned sorcery as we have?” He waits for a few heads to shake, although timidly, before delivering the final strike: “And would you describe their institutions as utter chaos? You might prefer our own, and I thank you for your loyalty if you do, but it is self-evident that chaos and a total ban on sorcery are not the only two paths available, _because where magic is permitted, it is also regulated_ , and a new set of regulations is precisely what I’m attempting.”

Merlin sees the ghost of doubt on a few scattered faces, and he realizes with startling clarity that they are the faces of those who don’t show up in council with any regularity, because they have business elsewhere and are often absent on long travels. For that alone, he counts it as a win: these are the ones who were already struggling with the truth of Arthur’s claim, even if they never admitted it in his father’s earshot, and are now comforted by hearing their own misgivings echoed in the king’s speech.

“And finally, because if you beat a dog, you have only yourself to blame when it bites you.” The metaphor takes a moment to land and take root, but he can see a few eyes going wide as they make the connection, as if the simple reasoning came as shocking news. “We believed the evil of sorcery to be a universal truth, in part, because our opinions were shaped by tragic experience; but what if sorcery itself weren’t the only cause of that experience? What if it was our own stance that attracted the worst, the bitter and the vengeful, and repelled the best? If you had a skill that you knew to be punishable by death just across the border, would you willingly step beyond that border and put it to the service of a kingdom that would take your life for it?”

Arthur drains his goblet in one greedy gulp just to have an excuse for another refill, another glance, another silent message: _I know someone who would, but they don’t need to know that yet._

“Does that satisfy you?” He looks straight at Gaius just because he’s the one who asked, but there’s an uncharacteristic edge of anger there, as if he were talking to the _anonymous Author_ instead.

“It does, sire.” There’s a hint of a smile on his face, but it’s a restrained sort of smile, as if he were saving the real one for later. “But I’m afraid that, unlike some, I’m rather too easily satisfied.”

“Ah. Of course. It has come to my attention,” says Arthur, “that there are those in court who would believe that none of these beliefs are truly my own and that no amount of eloquence would make them so.” And the proverbial cat is out of the bag. The very air in the room feels like a bowstring pulled as far as it can go, just before the arrow is released.

“It seems to have caused something of a… war of opinions.” That’s a test, Merlin can tell, a test to see how many were aware that such a war was going on at all, how many have gotten wind of both sides. He counts: one, two, three… by the time he’s given up on keeping track, it’s probably more than half.

“I must confess, the arguments were all compelling. They made me wonder. And I must ask you, Gaius, as the only man left in this council with any knowledge of such matters… _would_ a man under the influence of enchantment even wonder whether there is any truth to it?”

“As a general rule, I don’t believe so, sire. The influence of magic makes one far more likely to dismiss any insinuations that such an influence might exist without a second thought.”

And that’s the beauty of it, Merlin thinks, pushing down his grin and saving it for later himself: if the _anonymous Author_ hadn’t started it, Arthur would have had no cause to give the speech that just might tip the scales.

He watches for any faces falling, but this time, he might as well be looking at a collection of masks made out of stone. They’re all too good at playing the game. The _anonymous Author_ is destined to remain anonymous.

“That is quite comforting to know, Gaius, thank you. Now, then, regarding the proposal…”

It isn’t as easy as turning people’s opinions around with one speech. It never is. But at least now the proposal is being listened to, the objections made have some solid ground to stand on other than the leftover reverence to Uther’s memory, the modifications that follow are the result of long-debated compromise that leaves all parties as happy as can reasonably be expected, which is sometimes very happy, sometimes not at all.

They’re still afraid of the day the proposal becomes law, no doubt about that—or afraid of the day after, more accurately. For now, Merlin is vibrating with nervous energy, because that day is today.

When it comes, there are no trumpets or drumrolls anywhere but in his mind. Instead, it comes in the form of the softest little sounds, the kind you can only hear if you’re listening for them.

_Scratch. Drip. Squelch._

His own dangerously noisy breathing in his ears.

A whisper with the excuse of another refill, given with hands that tremble so much they nearly make a mess of the very papers they’ve fought for so hard: “If you’re _quite_ done bouncing off the walls…”

And this time, there’s no saving the grin for later.

**Author's Note:**

> Whenever you assume the series to be set, Latin was the common language of the scientific community for way longer (*points at Isaac Newton's _Principia_ *), so my sweet boy who is literally living with the one person in Camelot who has the most reason to know it can absolutely quote Seneca's _Medea_ , fight me. I'm in love with the concept. He may never need it for his spells because that is apparently not how this fictional universe rolls, but good luck learning medicine without it.
> 
> No OC names in this story are entirely made up. The ladies Lynette and Enid are courtesy of Alfred Lord Tennyson's _Idylls of the King_ , in which Lynette _would_ absolutely be the type to make a commoner cry; Sir Brennis is a Knight of Camelot lifted bodily from the Wiki, mentioned but never seen, neither confirmed alive nor confirmed dead at the time of these events; Howden is actually a location, also from the Wiki, which I picked precisely because I felt it could sound somewhat like a given name, to get out of the slight confusion between the traditional form of address 'Lord [insert place name]' and the style used on the show, which admits the form 'Lord [insert given name]', as in Lord Godwyn of Gawant.


End file.
